


damnatio per gloriam

by klismaphilia



Series: Vanity is the Most Beautiful Flaw [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Possession, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Mental Instability, Mild Sexual Content, Mind Control, Other, Power Dynamics, Terminal Illnesses, Unhealthy Relationships, ongoing short series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-11 12:58:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11148903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/klismaphilia
Summary: There was nothing more terrifying than knowing Valkorion held control over him, mind, soul and body.There was no sweeter shame than realizing Darth Nox had come torevelin the Emperor's own madness.





	1. inveigling

**inveigling**

**...**

 

Darth Nox had become well acquainted with shame.

 

Five years of his life were gone. _Years,_ cast into the void with neither care nor notice, little more than a few droplets of water in a half-filled bucket. The galaxy went on, waging wars and forging alliances, changeless and _shapeless_ even under the unyielding power of Zakuul.

 

And even with the _strangeness_ that inhabited every speck of sentience, every former friend and each new ally, Darth Nox felt… empty.

 

Disgraced.

 

Were it not for the presence of Valkorion in his mind, the unusual companionship offered within the confines of his carbonite-encased flesh, the Sith Lord was certain he would have grown well and truly mad. As it was, Valkorion remained-- even now, like some loathesome parasite rummaging about inside him, looking for a hold;, his influence spreading through vein and breath and thought alike, casting an all-encompassing shadow, one that was not entirely unwelcome.

 

Darth Nox, the Inquisitor, was not unused to sharing his mind; ghost after ghost had been bound to him, locked inside his body until they'd seen fit to attack him, eager to subdue and objectify the _brat_ who thought he could tame an entire hoard. Their corruption had purged any semblance of individuality he'd once had-- both now, as the Outlander… and before as a slave, a _vessel_ for those more powerful than himself, a _nuisance_ to his masters and his adversaries.

 

Before, when he was Irinei Jivial, a naive, impudent child plucked from the disconcerting, violent streets of Nar Shaddaa. A _weak_ boy, useful only for his latent force sensitivity, the _promise_ that the Sith claimed he showed. Before, when he was _capable_ of enjoying his freedom and being sound in his judgment, when he was… _formidable._

 

“They do not remember me,” he murmurs, lips pursed, and brow pinched with a deep-seated loathing. His pale green skin, lined by the black tattoos of his culture and his growing legacy, had taken on a sickly, unnatural glow as the Inquisitor clenched his hands into fists, cursing the cruelty of the galaxy and the misfortune that had taken him yet again. “They do not trust me. They do not have _faith.”_

 

“My dear,” Valkorion’s voice sung to him, a melodic tune of chaos and rage, calling out to the darkness the Inquisitor so valued. He turned his head, body shaking as he folded arms over his malnourished chest, an abominable display of his capitulating sickness. Valkorion’s hand laid steady along his shoulder, protective in a manner the young Nox had never been privy to. “They _lie_ to you, just as my son has. They would _turn_ on you the moment you reveal your true face. Those people are not your _allies--_ forsaken Sith Lords, corrupted spies, the remnants of a _weak_ coalition doomed to destroy itself. _They are your weakness._ ”

 

The Inquisitor-- Irinei, now, as he is hardly renowned enough to keep his title of _Darth,_ with his mind and body in shambles-- tenses. He felt as though a great beast were clawing at him, scratching out a hollow from the inside of his skin, taunting him with each labored breath he’d taken since Marr’s death. _Weakness, deception, treachery…_ Valkorion’s words reverberate through his bones, tearing the hate from his center and reshaping it in the image of betrayal.

 

The worst part, Irinei thinks, is that he knows it to be true.

 

“You called me Outlander,” he says, tilting his chin. His head points upward in an act of defiance, the haughty attitude of Acolytes, recalled from his time in the Academy. “Someone from a distant land. Alienated and _separate_ … a _pariah._ And yet now I find that you are the _only_ being capable of making me feel real. As if… the years spent in that blasted ice prison, this _false haze_ of hallucination _\--_ is more real than reality.”

 

“Reality is meaningless, without power,” Valkorion’s thumb slides along the regal arch of the Inquisitor’s jaw, brushing remnants of drool from his lips. The younger’s bloodshot, golden eyes remain trained on the distorted image of the former Emperor; a true sight for a phantasm, dressed all in white and cape still trailing down over his shoulders. “They do not _understand_ this galaxy, Nox. They think themselves invincible, even when trapped within the shadow of the Eternal Throne. It is the very nature of consciousness to lie; to fight and fall as legions have done for millenia. Empires crumbled, rulers dethroned and beheaded in kind. _They will fail…”_

 

Valkorion’s grip tightens, threading into Irinei’s silver-grey hair as he tugs the Inquisitor’s head back, waiting only until the Dark Lord’s averted eyes have no choice but to match the callous glint of his own.

 

“They will fall… but _you._ You do not have to resign yourself to such a primitive fate. With my assistance...” Irinei’s teeth clench-- but his defiance falters under the influence of Valkorion’s magnanimous, opulent tone. “You could _rule._ You could have the galaxy in your palm…”

 

 _“Yes,”_ the disgraced Sith moans, envisioning a throne of slate and onyx, draped with silver finery. A golden circlet sits upon his head, nestled in his silvery hair, proving his _power_ beyond measure. Beautiful. He would wear a crown and cape, _covet them_ , instead of the broken mask he was forced to carry now. _“Yes--_ it shall be. Only _I_ can bring order to this… uncivilized system. _Only I can be the Emperor!”_

 

“Only you,” Valkorion agrees, as Irinei presses his face against the crisp fabric of his regal uniform, fingers tangled in the sheen of his cape. He sits there, depraved and deprived, clinging to the image of a dead man like a grieving widow. But Irinei’s face remains stern, swarmed with a desire for vengeance, not betraying even a hint of sorrow.

 

Valkorion is right. The galaxy has doomed itself. Republic and Empire alike will fight and _die_ without purpose, leaving behind only meaningless names, forever lost to the stars.

 

“Only you,” Valkorion says once more. “After centuries of damnation, watching the universe reform time and time again after being brought to the brink of destruction, there is no other that has held my attention for so long. _Darth Nox._ I could share with you all the power in the universe… knowledge and history from the farthest reaches of our existence, the secret of _immortality._ I could _make_ you Emperor-- you only have to let me in.”

 

“I’ve had others in my head before.” The Inquisitor licks his lips, turning his head to stare idly out the viewport overlooking Zakuul. He pauses, frowning in uncertainty. “It isn’t such an unpleasant fate, Vitiate. Not when _we_ could gain so much… bring them to their knees, as acolytes and vassals of the Eternal Throne.”

 

Valkorion is smiling as the Inquisitor looks up once more; his expression is hardly unpleasant, chilling as it may be. He wears the sort of grin made to strike fear into the hearts of the disobedient. Irinei is reminded, if only for a second, of his own cult: Zash’s _impuissant_ apprentices who watched and waited upon him with a sense of idolatry, the _veneration_ he had felt when Darth Thanaton fell on his knees before him in the Dark Council chamber, the newly-proclaimed Nox’s lightsaber held just over the back of his neck... the adoration from Theron and Lana that he still allows near, even in the midst of this brave new world.

 

 _Oh,_ the galaxy is _sick._ He longs to hold it within his hands, and crush it inside the might of his glorious fist.

 

“I will _join_ you,” he affirms, voice certain. He steadies himself with the surge of Valkorion’s void, reformed in the manner of a God-- no longer Outlander and no longer Sith. “I will rule not Zakuul, but _eternity._ Valkorion-- no. _Vitiate._ And myself--”

 

 _“Venereth,”_ Vitiate affirms. “A name for a wretched Emperor, indeed.”

 

His lips press, gentle, to lay a kiss upon the newly-named Emperor’s temple. It’s both chaste and _considerate,_ a true antithesis to everything that Vitiate was, everything the once _great_ Inquisitor now is.

 

Venereth knows Vitiate will betray him. He knows that the man will steal his body, longing for the penultimate assertion of dominance. It’s almost terrifying, how little he feels, how indifferent he is to the control which Vitiate holds over him. Terrifying, to realize that he would _let_ Vitiate take him, keep him prisoner in his own mind-- but Venereth has neither the heart nor will to care. After all, what would he be, without the guidance of Darkness?


	2. benevolence

  **benevolence**

**...**

 

“You would betray us-- all of us-- for that  _ tyrant?”  _

 

_ Tyrant.  _ The word carried a weight to it that prevailed over even Venereth’s title of Emperor.  _ Tyrant, wretch, murderer, scourge…  _ names, spat with vitriol behind his back, curses meant to  _ damn  _ him just as Arcann had damned Valkorion, once before. He’d stood with a straight back and clenched teeth, fists pressed tight to his sides as Theron shook with unseen sobs, his body wracked with a pain that could not be shaken.

 

_ Tyrant,  _ they called him. Just as Marr would have called him  _ traitor,  _ revulsion evident in his voice when Darth Nox had the gall to kneel at Valkorion’s feet, pledging himself in a way no  _ honest  _ creature ever would.

 

And what should it matter how they spoke of him? Venereth had killed countless beings as he carved his path through the galaxy, civilians and soldiers alike. Nobody was  _ truly  _ innocent, after all; he did what had to be done. It was  _ shameful  _ that this alliance seemed incapable of understanding the burden of duty.

 

“They are weak.” Valkorion speaks in his ear. His tone is gentle, hardly a thing to be so  _ despised  _ when compared to the crass manner of Venereth’s former masters. One hand, still lined by regal fabric, slides along the washed-out grey of the Outlander’s shaking arm. 

 

He nearly hates to acknowledge that the touch is  _ calming.  _ Promising, rather than damning; as though Valkorion alone was capable of seeing see his accomplishments. And it was true, that the Immortal Emperor was the only being to  _ truly  _ consider Venereth worthy… composed and  _ commanding,  _ willing to berate when necessary and instill praise as it was earned. Valkorion deserved loyalty-- he deserved…

 

_ Justice. _

 

Venereth shudders. His own palm presses atop the transparent image of Valkorion’s hand, paused in wait upon his bicep. The Inquisitor tilts his head back, ghastly-green expanse of his throat bare to the world as he makes to settle in the Emperor’s arms, back-to-chest in an embrace as chilling as it is arousing.

 

“I will not be a slave to this alliance,” Venereth hisses. “They think me a bloodthirsty monster-- good for little more than causing acts of terror. They do not see how  _ benevolent  _ I am, Valkorion.” The mirialan turns his face, a bemused smirk overtaking his otherwise corrupted features. Vile lips twitch up at the corners, a hollow laugh building within his throat and escaping taciturn; “They do not realize our  _ altruism.” _

 

“They have underestimated you,” Valkorion agrees, as the young Sith grips his hand ever tighter, pulling it to rest along the sturdy, defined curve of his waist. His eyes flutter shut, lashes fanning across his cheeks like strange cobwebs reflected in a dim light; even here, Valkorion’s presence shines with a clarity more distinctive than the most radiant of stars. “You know the feeling of pain…” 

 

The human’s nails sink deep into Venereth’s skin, pinching the thin flesh lining his ribcage until droplets of scarlet spring to the surface, staining Valkorion’s white robes with the ichor of virility. “You know what it is like to  _ suffer  _ alone.” he continues. The Sith grips at Valkorion’s half-formed wrist, desperate to leave a mark of his own, something loathsome and  _ lovely  _ on Valkorion’s pure skin. 

 

“Do you think me a slave, Valkorion?” He asks, a faint echo of a moan clinging to the paranoid lilt of his voice. “Do you think me  _ worthless?” _

 

“The Sith Empire was incapable of understanding your true potential.” His breath catches on the crook of Venereth’s shoulder, a phantasmic hand settled against skin the Inquisitor only now realizes is devoid of cover. “And we will  _ destroy  _ them.”

 

And how  _ ridiculous  _ the image is, really. His own vulnerability, the despairing  _ need  _ to submit under this pressure from Valkorion’s iron fist, to be as close to the Emperor as Senya ever was-- and then closer still. 

 

“My so-called allies seek to betray me.”  _ I know. I have always known. You have only etched the knowledge into my skin permanently.  _ “They think I am…  _ hiding something.”  _ Venereth’s voice is slurring, longing to give in to the careful ministrations of Valkorion’s being atop him, to claw marks through the other’s back and spread his legs in acceptance of  _ his  _ Emperor’s undying power. 

 

But Valkorion is gone.

 

And he, the  _ foolish, depraved  _ Outlander, is awake; lying stretched out atop a sickbed, consciousness passing before his glassy eyes in an open taunt. Pain torments him; a throbbing head, the endless speeding of the cursed organ beating under his breastbone. Venereth drags in a breath, quivering in the glint of a fluorescent light.

 

He remembers Arcann, a confrontation inside a tower, the swirling image of lightning as it twined inside a dark mist, light spilling over the edges and  _ crashing  _ around him. He remembers a body, something twisted and metal crumpled near his feet, voices ringing in his ears as he slumped over against a console, the pitch of his insides gushing out around him--

 

A sickening  _ fear  _ creeping into his veins as his vision faded. The knowledge, as well as the fear, that came with the exposure of Valkorion’s presence in his mind, the disgusted, betrayed look on Lana’s face as he’d hissed at her,  _ Do you really think I wanted you meddling in my mind? Like I’m some incompetent, delusional fool to be experimented on? No. I had enough of that from Zash. _

 

Lana is beside him, even now; the pale blonde of her hair and black swathe of a long tunic the first thing that Venereth glimpses upon waking. His hand pressed against his own forehead, he shudders, pushes himself up from the cool metal under his back, uncertainty pushing at the forefront of his mental barriers.

 

“You’re awake,” she says, a smile barely gracing her face. It is strange, to think that the gesture could bring any sort of comfort, and yet it does, tenfold-- with Valkorion silent, his purpose is here, with the Gravestone and her crew… 

 

At least until their inevitable treachery comes to fruition.

 

“What happened?” The Sith rasps, and his voice breaks with each word.  _ Weakness,  _ Venereth considers.  _ Insecurity. Futility. _

 

“You collapsed on the bridge.” She pauses. “We’re in hyperspace; Vaylin got away.” Lana adjusts her stance, seemingly indifferent even as her tone drops. “In the tower-- that was him, wasn’t it? Valkorion. I have never felt anything like it--”

 

“I’m fine,” Venereth interjects, his hands balled into tight fists. “I’m  _ fine,  _ Lana. Valkorion cannot have control without my permission.”

 

She crosses to the door, brow pinched in thought. Her own comment, when presented, is not said aloud, but reflected within his mind, a knowing contempt underlying the words. 

 

_ I know, Nox. I know you bowed to him. I know that he is using you. _

 

A flicker of static.

 

_ I know that you’ve given him all the permission he needs. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sincerely sorry for how long it took my to write this shoddy 1100 words. I'm sincerely sorry for my lack of responses to readers on any of my fic, and to messages on tumblr. I'm sorry for not updating my prequel and sequel trilogy fics. I've had a rather severe writer's block for the past month, but I hope that I will gain some of my motivation back soon. 
> 
> I know nobody wants to hear a sob story, but a lot has been going on lately, especially with my still failing health and the fact I'm most likely anorexic and struggling to get back on meds because my mental health has relapsed. I promise I'll try to start getting back to reviewers and friends ASAP.

**Author's Note:**

> more to come.
> 
> you can find me on tumblr [@symphorophilian.](symphorophilian.tumblr.com)


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